Bonding Rites
by FirstRabid
Summary: Stiles is about to turn eighteen and is training to be an Emissary. He's learned that there are certain rituals he might need to perform in order to be bonded to his pack. To his surprise, Derek Hale agrees to help with his bonding rites. Panic and hilarity and some explicit sexy times ensue. Explicit sexuality removed from Part 2 for Fanfiction Net.
1. Chapter 1

bBONDING RITES/b  
By Rabid1st  
Teen Wolf – Derek/Stiles

bRating:/b Humor/Romance. Mature Themes – Explicit M/M  
bBeta Babes:/b Birthsister and Elsecarless  
bAuthor's Note:/b My fic do have plot twists and those twists are part of the fun. But…since I am new to this fandom...and not a regular slash writer, I will say a little here in this note. I am a very new Sterek fan, having started shipping them in S3 at Motel California. My regular readers will understand how liberal my views are on gender and sex. This is gay "sex to purpose" fic featuring sex between two non-gay men, who are quite attached to one another. They could be gay, of course, if you like, but they are as they are in canon. I used a slash-fan and a non-slash fan as my beta babes...and my hope is that even non-slash fans, with open minds, might like this one. But it is very explicit.

There is no kink, no dom/sub, but there are toys and some roughness and psychological baggage. There are, also, a couple of very angsty moments that the reader and Stiles must live through. But it is meant to be fun, not painful. I suggest pushing through the heartache. It is supposed to read like the show-a little scary, and then lots of fun. I wrote it for the banter in my head, because I love Stiles and Derek so much. And everyone else on Teen Wolf, to be perfectly honest.  
bSummary:/b Set a year or so in the future, Stiles is about to turn eighteen and is training to be an Emissary. He's learned that there are certain rituals he might need to perform in order to be bonded to his pack. To his surprise, he goes to Derek for help. Panic and hilarity and some sexy times ensue.  
bDisclaimer: /bTeen Wolf is a world unto itself. I am only playing with the characters for my own amusement. No copyright infringement is intended.

As the unseasonable Santa Ana winds sent dust devils swirling up the center line of the street, Stiles Stilinski sat in his jeep, looking out through the smoky haze toward a glow on the horizon. Wildfires encircled Beacon Hills. Mandatory evacuations threatened on the radio. Spontaneous combustion had claimed another victim at school. If it weren't for the ash clogging his nose, Stiles was sure he would smell something supernatural in the air. Beware the Ides of March and all of that. He glanced across the street at a line of Colonial style town homes. Dr. Deaton's surgery had been damaged by one of the first localized burns. He'd gone to ground at his house and suggested Stiles meet him there for compulsory Druid training. The older emissary seemed committed to keeping Scott's friends out of trouble this year. Good luck with that, Stiles thought, exiting his jeep.

Deaton's townhouse in the Mayflower Estates was a nice address. But, the modest brick exterior of his home, identical to others on the block, didn't prepare a visitor for the palatial interior. Inside, the residence resembled a boutique museum, all gleaming marble and steel with ancient artifacts in glass cases. As he stepped across the threshold, Stiles felt his shoes sink into the plush cream-colored carpet. He bounced once or twice to better appreciate the yielding sensation. Deaton closed the door behind him. The entryway opened to a living room on the left and a study on the right. The study was lined with book shelves. And the shelves were lined with books, bones, baubles, scrolls and specimen jars. A massive oaken desk dominated the room.

"Nice lair," Stiles said, taking in the sumptuous, yet vaguely supernatural, decor. "Very arcane."

"You had questions about how you might control a rogue Alpha, bring one into the pack?" Deaton began, launching straight into business, as he sauntered by Stiles. "I thought we might discuss the most basic options, before we begin our lesson."

Stiles followed him to the study. Deaton waved a hand toward a wing-backed chair as he continued on toward a large wicker basket, containing what looked like the school library's outdated map collection. Dozens of rolled parchments, in varying states of decay, stood upright in the three foot high container. Stiles sat as Deaton searched for and found a specific roll. He drew what he'd been looking for out of the collection and returned to the desk.

"There are two types of emissary," he began.

"The Druid and the Darach?" Stiles interrupted. He sliced down with his hand, as if dividing the room in two. "The Wise Oak and the Dark Oak."

"No," Deaton corrected. "Two types of Wise Oak. The Darach could never be a true emissary. The fall cannot be undone."

Stiles waited for more, but for the moment, Deaton seemed occupied stripping the protective plastic from his chosen parchment. Once that was done, he rolled what Stiles could see was an elaborate print out on the desktop. The image seemed to pulse on the page, too many lines intersecting. It was hard to make out any recognizable pattern. He thought it might be another tree lithograph. He could almost make out limbs whipped by a high wind, writhing in a storm.

"What is it?" Stiles asked, tilting his head this way and that as he studied the drawing. "Druid Rorschach Testing? You want to know what I see in the-Oh—My—God! Is that—werewolves?"

"And their emissary." Stiles saw her then, a woman at the center of the pack, being...well, pack banged? She didn't seem too upset by the assorted prodding and stroking. He guessed this was a consensual encounter of some kind. "Your eighteenth birthday is coming up in less than a month and…?"

"You wanted to get me some truly disturbing erotic art for my dorm room? How...thoughtful!"

"I want you to understand the choice that lies before you. A choice that will effect the rest of your life, as much as, even more so than your choices about college." Deaton swept a hand around to indicate his home. "As you can see, I live comfortably. My sister and I have chosen our path. The path of the mind. It can lead to material gain, but encourages complete detachment. We live alone. We are counselors, advisors, with a monastic devotion to our pack. We keep our distance and, to the best of our ability, avoid any emotional entanglements."

"So, that's what I have to look forward to enforced celibacy? Check. Already well on my way. How does the art fit in? Yearly Bacchanalia?"

"Historically, a path is chosen when the emissary reaches his or her majority, the eighteenth birthday in modern times."

"So...? I have a month to prepare?" Stiles tapped the parchment. "What does any of this have to do with bestial orgies?"

"The bestial aspect of the werewolf is exaggerated for artistic and religious reasons in this work," Deaton said. "Modern scholars understand that werewolves are still people and not animals."

"Right. Still...orgies and...two types of druid emissary?"

"Two paths. The path of the mind is one option," Deaton said, walking around his desk to the far side and his chair. "The other option is the path of the heart. I believe you are on this second path, Mr. Stiles. And the path of the heart is one of polyamory."

"I understood every word in that sentence. But I still don't see..."

"Those who chose the path of the heart do not remain detached." Deaton stressed the negative, as he waved a hand over the parchment between them. "They become intimately involved in pack affairs. You will recall Kali's attachment to Julia, Miss Blake?"

Kali and Jennifer Blake? That made sense to him. They were unnaturally close, more like lovers than friends. A prickling heat raised the hairs on Stiles' arms. For a brief moment, he thought he was about to burst into flame. Then, he surged out of his seat.

"You have got to be kidding me," he yelped, shocked to the core. "If you think I'm going to have group sex with...Oh, My! Lord! Scott?" He gagged, one hand up as if to ward off the idea. "Scott is like a brother to me. I can't believe you would even suggest…"

"Calm yourself." Deaton smiled warmly at him. "I wouldn't, of course, make such a suggestion. It is completely unnecessary for you to develop a sexual bond with Scott. As you say, you and he are already close."

"Like brothers," Stiles said again, wanting to make it very clear.

"You trust one another. Polyamory isn't strictly sexual," Deaton said. "It can refer to all types of love. Friendship. Deep, brotherly devotion is a powerful bond. Paternal love. Even a love of a common cause, found in soldiers at arms. But, the connections you forge as an emissary must be true and enduring."

Stiles settled back into his seat. "So? If this isn't about Scott? Then...who?" It took him less than two seconds to realize. "Derek?"

"It doesn't seem likely that you and Derek are going to bond over common interests any time soon."

"We don't have common interests," Stiles said, "unless you count mutual animosity. Derek hates me."

"I've noticed a certain aggression," Deaton said dryly. "But you know what they say? There's a thin line between love and hate."

"Between me and Derek?" Stiles scoffed. "There's a wall, like the Great Wall of China." He waved his hands, miming the size and scope of the barrier. "I dated his sister, for one thing. And, you know, killed the last woman he dated. And, even if I hadn't done any of those things, by all accounts Derek put the het in heterosexual. So if you think he's going to be down with this," he lifted the print by one corner and shook it, "you are sadly mistaken."

"You might be surprised," Deaton said. "Polyamory is an accepted part of pack rituals. You should consider approaching him with the idea."

"Right," Stiles drawled, bobbing his head in exaggerated agreement. "I will do that. Right after I decide how to answer the resuscitation question on my living will." He rolled up the print and handed it to Deaton. "Can we talk about sleeping potions as an antidote to bursting into flames? You mentioned that, yesterday."

"Yes, of course," Deaton sighed, as he wrapped a cloth band around the drawing. "But, I don't want you to simply dismiss this. You only have a few weeks to decide on your path. However you wish to proceed, it is part of your duty as an emissary to build trust with the entire pack. You must keep order and establish cohesion in their territory."

"Couldn't we just run Derek out of town?"

"That seems drastic, if not impossible."

"Not as drastic as having sex with him."

"When you come of age, you will take up your role, no matter where we are in the training. You need to bring Derek back into pack society or he will become a lone wolf. And, a danger to Scott and to you. I'm afraid the job of securing a bond falls to you."

Stiles rubbed his temples as he consider this. Then, he shrugged. "Yeah. Well, we don't need to leap straight to the orgy. We could try bowling, first. People bond over those goofy shoes all the time."

***********************

"What do you want?" Derek growled as he opened the door.

"We have to talk."

"I'm sure we don't." Derek said. But he stepped aside anyway so Stiles could enter the apartment.

Stiles hesitated on the threshold for a moment, but given Derek was moving away from him, he decided to follow rather than shout at him. He couldn't quite bring himself to turn his back however, while sliding the door closed. Or even to move very far from that ready means of escape. Derek had that effect on him, still. Familiarity had bred a little contempt, but it hadn't muted his self-preservation instincts. He was always aware of a primal human desire to avoid being trapped in small spaces with large carnivores. Especially grumpy carnivores you were about to poke with a stick.

He appeared to have interrupted Derek's dinner. A white foam box gaped open on the coffee table. It seemed to be full of meat and cole slaw. A half-full bottle of beer and two empties sat next to it. There was a book face down on the couch. Not a thriller, if the leather binding was any indication.

"Scott's putting together a mission against the Phoenix."

"He doesn't need me."

"He might. If you would stop moping around, get out there and..." He broke off when Derek spun to face him.

For a second the old fire flared in Derek's eyes, but when he spoke he seemed more defeated then angry.

"I've had my therapy session this week, thank you."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "You go to therapy? Wow!" He stood a little straighter. "That's...uh, unexpected. And...enlightened of you."

"I'm a true renaissance man. What. Do. You. Want?"

"Fine. God. You know you aren't the easiest person to talk to. Have you discussed that with your therapist?"

"She's not taking requests," Derek said. He lifted his brows and rolled his hand in the universal gesture for 'get on with it.'"

"Uh—so, Uhm, actually, I thought you might be able to help me with...with something. Part of my Jedi training."

This caught Derek off guard. "You?"

"Uh...I'm turning eighteen."

Derek gave him a pained little smile. "Never thought you'd make it, myself. Congratulations."

"And there's this...ritual..."

That brought Derek's eyes wide open. But he shrugged it off. "Lydia is going to tear your face off. There's nothing I can do about that. You might try muscle relaxers."

"Lydia's not part of the pack. Or, maybe she is," Stiles took a moment to consider the idea. Why not Lydia? It would be a whole lot easier place to start than...here. He frowned at Derek. "For me or her? The muscle relaxers?"

"Both of you." He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "Foods getting cold."

Stile's sighed. This whole conversation pained him so much. It was humiliating and awkward, like all of his pseudo-sexual encounters had been. The idea that Derek Hale would be his first was ludicrous.

"Unfortunately, Lydia's name didn't come up. She's causing fewer problems than-well-someone else. Someone familiar with this particular ritual." His voice trailed off into silence.

Derek's head dropped back as he sighed heavily. He stood quite still for a few seconds. Only the slight click of his nails, as he curled them together, broke the stillness. When he lowered his chin, he locked eyes with Stiles. And Stiles knew that he understood perfectly.

"Your heart is skipping all over the place."

"I'm aware of that. I don't need your werewolf EKG to tell me I'm hyperventilating. Someone with a little more humanity might understand why."

Derek smiled, a chilling flash of teeth with no humor or humanity in it. "My name came up? For initiation?"

Stile could feel the flaming blush coloring his cheeks. He cocked his head in an appeal, but gave up on it immediately. "Look, forget it. I should just go see Lydia." He started patting beyond his hip for the door handle. Derek's smile softened and brightened into something genuine and...hungry. "Stop that?"

"What?"

"Looking me up and down and salivating like Wiley Coyote looking at a steak. I don't want to use the term 'wolfish grin' here, but you leave me no choice."

"I wasn't thinking about steak," Derek said in an infuriatingly matter of fact tone. Stiles relaxed incrementally. Until Derek added, "I was thinking about bacon."

"Are you exploring your three little pigs' fantasy or is that your subtle way of calling me fat? Because let me tell you, Mr. One Armed Push-Up, I've been working out, eating better. There may still be a little roundness to my cheeks, but I'm rock hard here," he slapped his stomach, "where it counts."

"Frightening," Derek said, flatly.

"Unless, you were talking about my nose. Were you mocking my nose?"

In his indignation, Stiles pushed away from the door, only to have Derek dart sideways, blocking him with one fluid surge. Stiles reeled back, slamming into the door, again. His hand fumbled behind him, searching for the handle. He forced himself to maintain eye contact, aware of the meaning of a flinch during werewolf confrontation. Derek pushed in closer, forcing Stiles back on the offensive.

"Because that's original," he sneered. "Never heard that one before. I'll have you know my nose is only slightly upturned. Very slightly. And it adds to my charm. I've had it on good authority that it makes me look puckish."

"Puckish?"

"Like…Puck. From a Midsommer Night's Dream. That's a play..."

"I know who Puck is," Derek growled so close to the nose in question that Stiles could smell Madison's Bar-B-Que pork ribs on his breath. "And bacon is delicious."

"Oh," Stiles said on a relieved sigh. Then, because relief was the last thing he should be feeling this close to Derek Hale, he mentally replayed the last few moments. That bacon comment had sounded like a compliment. His mouth opened to ask a question. Derek cocked an eyebrow and Stiles slumped out of his rigid stance, relaxing a little as he took in the implications of their proximity. "Oh!"

He might have said more, but Derek's lips got in his way. One second Derek was glaring at him in extreme close-up, and the next they were blending together. Closer than they'd ever been. Well, closer than they'd been outside of life or death situations, like at the school pool. Time slowed down for Stiles and details came into stark relief, a rare circumstance in his ADD-plagued life. It happened sometimes playing video games. He'd click into a zone and experience life to the fullest. No spinning thoughts, just feeling. And now, he was zoning happily. Because Derek up-close was a sensory experience to be savored.

Stiles relaxed into the sensations. Derek had seized him by the scruff of the neck to facilitate the kiss. His grip intimidated. But the kiss was remarkably tender, as gentle as it was abrupt. And, as it lingered the room shrink wrapped them. Stiles thought he might pass out from the sudden rise in temperature. He burned all over. Heat flashed along his arms as adrenaline sent a rush of blood sizzling along just beneath his skin. He could hear a pounding pulse in his ears. Noticing his hands were flapping in the air, he tried to think where they could safely settle. Derek's free hand found a home at his waist. Stiles felt long fingers pushing under his tee. He squirmed to avoid them, but that was hopeless. And then there was tongue.

The tongue nearly broke Stiles, mentally. It was accompanied by so many conflicting impulses in his brain that he couldn't begin to follow every command. He would have bolted if Derek had given him an inch to move at all. As it was he jerked violently and then started shaking. Not from fear, but from the gut churning need to do something physical. He bounced in place as he clawed into Derek's shoulders for stability. Reflex almost snapped his teeth together. He came very close to biting down on the interloping tongue. But the taste of Derek's mouth stopped him.

One thought came through clearly, in the raging mind storm like a lighthouse beacon of reason. Madison's Pork Ribs. Stiles would have lived on Madison's sweet sauce pork, if his dad would have allowed it. It had a tangy after-burn, which was completely irresistible. Sweet sauced Derek Hale. Stiles had a flash thought about licking the sticky stuff off of Derek's body. Running his own tongue over those rock hard abs. And right on cue, as if he could read minds, or maybe smell arousal, Derek gave a contented little hum. Stiles prayed, but wasn't sure exactly what he wanted to happen next.

When the kiss ended, neither of them moved for a second. Both were a little breathless and cautious and slightly confused. They stared into one another's faces, gazes moving from point to point. Derek moistened his already slick lips. Stiles avoided more eye contact by knocking the back of his head into the door. But he recovered first.

"Why did you-?"

"Taste?"

"Oh...Gah! Does this mean you are not against the idea...on...you know, principle?"

Derek laughed and stepped back. A coldness rushed into the space between them. Stiles didn't like it.

"When's your birthday?" Derek asked, heading for his dinner.

"Two weeks from Saturday. Why?"

"I'm a traditionalist," Derek said. "And your father's the Sheriff."

************************************************** ************************

As soon as he left Derek, Stiles sent Danny a desperate text. Need to talk. He could hardly contain himself until the second period break the next day. Spotting Danny, he dashed down the hallway, smacking into a few people while calling out apologies. When he reached Danny's locker, he stood gasping. Danny smiled a hello, but didn't seem overjoyed to see him.

"Danny, I have an important question to ask and I want you to answer me honestly, okay?"

"I don't have a lot of time," Danny said, "Why didn't you text them to me?"

"Because," Stiles exclaimed, exasperated, "this is face to face stuff."

Danny took a book from his locker, as he considered Stiles. His expression said he wasn't expecting an interesting exchange of ideas. Stiles blamed himself. He did pester Danny a lot with sexuality questions.

"Yes, I think Zac Efron is overrated," Danny said on a sigh. "No, I don't think it means you're gay if you still think he's hot. Many people find him hot-men, women, news anchors, transvestites, space aliens."

Stiles put on his best affronted look. "This isn't about Zac Efron...again."

Danny closed his locker and started walking. Stiles fell into step beside him. Danny glanced at his watch. Then, he turned a critical eye on Stiles.

"Yes, I like that color on you. A v-neck does something for your round face. No, it doesn't mean you're gay. There is no such thing as gay clothing. Clothing and pasta and music are sexually neutral. There's only one thing that makes you gay, liking guys. So don't worry about it, unless you start…"

"Kissing Derek Hale?"

Danny stopped walking but forgot to tell his feet. He stumbled forward. Then, he swallowed hard and looked up and down the hallway. As if they might be discussing state secrets, he grabbed Stiles by an elbow and hustled him toward a nearby alcove under some stairs.

"You kissed Derek Hale?" Danny hissed, trying to keep his voice down but failing. Several people turned to stare. Danny sounded impressed as well as shocked. "How? Why? What was it like?"

"He kissed me, actually. And I have no idea why?" Stiles said. "I was hoping you could tell me. Why would a straight guy kiss me...like that?"

"You have a nice mouth," Danny said. "Feminine."

Stiles blinked at him. "All this time I've known you and you never think to mention that I have a kissable mouth?"

"I thought you might get the wrong idea," Danny said. "And I'm still waiting for details."

"It was weird. Not unpleasant. But not like I'd imagined." Seeing Danny's eyes widen, he hastily added, "Not that I imagine it all the time or anything. It's more of a passing thought. You know how it is when you are in the shower alone. And you've spent all day looking at that...spiral tattoo," Stiles cleared his throat. "Don't you occasionally think about girls? Like...imagine them in the shower?"

"When I think about girls, they are fully clothed."

"They are fully clothed even when they shower?" Stiles drew back a little, impressed. "Man, Danny. You are gay."

"You think about Derek taking a shower? You're so busted," Danny said, grinning like a man whose day was going so much better than expected. "Back to the kiss. Dish."

"It was a little scruffy, unshaven. You know Derek's homeless look? Not just skin deep. There are personal hygiene issues. But he had nice technique and there was tongue. It tasted like Madison's sweet barbecue sauce. Have you ever had their pork? He was eating dinner at the time, which is sort of gross now that I think about it." He shook of the thought. "I wasn't expecting his tongue in my mouth…because, I don't expect that. But, much as I hate to admit it, he's a fantastic kisser."

"Oh, I bet. But you're…"

"Not gay? I know. That's sort of what I wanted to ask you about..."

"I was going to say seventeen and he's like…"

"…a hundred and nine in dog years? I know."

"I was going to say a little out of your league."

"Thanks a lot, Danny. I thought we were friends."

"Stiles," Danny shook him gently, "Did you take your meds today? Give me context. Why were you making out with Derek Hale? What happened? Is it a supernatural thing? Has he gone crazy."

"Yeah. Sort of. Wait what?" Stiles glared. "Again I have to remind you, Danny, that we are supposed to be friends. And, the kissing was...complicated. As part of becoming an emissary, apparently, I'm supposed to create a bond with the pack. To stabilize them emotionally...make them trust me."

"So you'll be making out with Scott, too?"

"Gross. No. Scott and I are like brothers, so we're covered. There's already a deep emotional connection, or whatever. And Ethan is bonded to the Deatons, so you don't have to worry."

"I wasn't worried."

"I might have to do something about Lydia..." His gaze slid sideways after briefly meeting Danny's eye. "Uhm…yeah…never mind about that. Derek is the lone wolf, running rogue, sans druid connections. His born free attitude is bringing down the energy or something. So, I have to step up and do my duty. The question I had for you is this…what's it like?"

"So," Danny said, with a sigh, "this is the same question you always have for me?"

"Okay, then—different question: Would you sleep with a girl if she was as hot as Derek Hale?"

"I want to say, no! But I suppose it would depend on a lot of variables. Like, how much I was committed to the cause. And would she know about my usual preferences? I wouldn't be playing straight, right? Just indulging my curiosity? And when you say, as hot as Derek, do you mean she's an attractive girl or she's equally androgynous?"

"You think Derek is androgynous?"

"He's a little too pretty for my taste."

"Pretty?" Stiles scoffed. "Right! Like my mouth? You obviously haven't seen him after he's been living in the woods for a week."

"I've seen him with his shirt off," Danny said, smirking. "Thank you, by the way. And he's all male in that respect."

"Danny? Focus. Let's say this hypothetical girl is objectively attractive."

"Objectively?"

"Objectively. Yes." Stiles waved an impatient arm through the air. "Like the Mona Lisa. Or J-Lo. And you can save the world if you have sex with her, this objectively hot, slightly androgynous, sweet, yet tangy, lass? Do you take one for the team? Is it theoretically feasible?"

"Seriously? You and Derek are going to have Save the World Sex?"

"Oh, My God! Danny?"

"It could happen. I don't know about your wolf-pack priorities. I'm barely in the loop on all this. For all I know we're one wild weekend away from the apocalypse."

"Okay, maybe the world isn't ending. Exactly this weekend. But..." Stiles swallowed. "I think I have to do this. And, I'm worried."

Danny sighed again. "Fine. You know how you've been asking me if random things make you seem gay since I came out in seventh grade?" Stiles nodded. "Well, having sex with Derek would definitely be the gayest thing you've ever done. But, sure, yeah, I would do it, with a girl-if it would save the world. Girls aren't as gross as you imagine."

"Funny."

"As long as nobody gets hurt, why not?"

Stiles puffed out a sigh. "That's what I thought you would say." Danny started to move away from him, back into the now empty hallway. "One more question…"

"I've got History."

"I just need to know…will it hurt?"

"That all depends on what you do, I guess." Danny said, with no trace of his former teasing manner. "And how much you are lying to yourself."

***************************

Two days later, Derek was dead. Another victim of the wildfires raging through the tinder pines surrounding Beacon Hills. The Phoenix had cornered them all and set Derek in a blazing circle. Stiles and Scott barely escaped with their lives. And together they endured interviews and school counseling. The irony of the last Hale dying in a fire wasn't lost on the local newspapers. Unfortunately, direct contact with Phoenix fire left nothing behind to bury. There was no body and no family to care. No memorial services to be given beyond Scott, Stiles and Lydia gathering at the Hale house to drink and remember. And if Stile's eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed all day long in the week that followed, that made him no different than everyone else in a town plagued by wood smoke and ashes.

Scott had asthma again. And he'd turned equally listless, blaming himself for the loss. He and Stiles moped about together, avoiding any talk of battle or plans. They damned Derek and his reckless loner machismo, but there was no fire left in them. The Phoenix had taken it, turned it on them.

Stiles couldn't keep food down. He excused himself to the restroom during every class, retching even when there was nothing in his stomach. He felt too tired for revenge, almost too tired to go on breathing. He couldn't make himself care about the daily chores of life. His father ate Chinese take-out every night. And the laundry piled up until all Stiles had left to wear was a pair of faded, flannel pajama bottoms. He paired them with the over-sized t-shirt that he slept in. He wore this outfit from Friday afternoon through to Sunday night. Just before heading off to bed, his dad insisted he do a load of school clothes. Stilinski, Sr. wouldn't listen when Stiles said he didn't need clothes.

"I'm staying home tomorrow."

"No, you are going to school, Mister," his father said. "And then you are going to see Dr. Clary. I made an appointment for you at 4:30, right after class."

"I don't need a therapist. It's just the flu."

"Whatever is going on with you…and I know it has something to do with Derek Hale's death…you have to talk to somebody. If not me, then..."

"Dad...please, don't." Stiles crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them.

"You two weren't close. Do you feel responsible, somehow? This is just like when your mother..."

Clattering back his chair, Stiles broke away from the conversation, making a beeline for the bathroom. He slammed the door closed, locking it behind him. Leaning over the sink, he felt the sobs take hold again. He didn't want to cry in front of his father. Not because he was ashamed, or because he doubted his father's genuine concern. But because he wasn't sure he would stop crying if anyone consoled him. And he was too tired to cry all night. The sobs cut through him like razors now, making him gag. He didn't have the energy to argue or explain himself. His father came to the door, rattling the knob.

"Stiles?"

"I'm okay."

"Can you come out, please?"

Stiles promised him that he would come out soon and do a load of laundry for school. Yes, he would go to the doctor. No, there was nothing his father could do to fix this. He waited until he heard his father's footsteps moving away. Then, he said down on the closed toilet and waited. Eventually, the house grew quiet. He heard his father's bedroom door shut. He took out his cellphone to check the time...10:38 pm.

At 11:10 when the Stilinski dryer rattled and groaned to a halt, minutes after he started it, Stiles lost his temper. He was sick of being sick. Sick of being sad and scared. Sick of being poor. Sick of Beacon Hills and Derek Hale and life.

"Son of a bitch" he snarled, rushing from the kitchen to the laundry room in response to an ominous grating sound. "What the fuck, now?"

He saw a curl of smoke and, for a split second he thought the house was on fire. But he quickly traced the problem to their ancient clothes dryer. The plug glowed red hot. He used a pot holder to pull it free from the wall. A quick check showed his wet jeans had no chance of line drying in time for school. Furious, he bundled the sopping mess into a basket, scrawled a note on the white board for his dad, and headed for the all-night laundry on Fifth Street. He went unwashed, unshaved, and wearing a ridiculously impractical outfit.

Fifth was deserted. A homeless man slept sprawled along one of the Laundromat benches. Stiles yanked his basket out of the jeep. Muttering curses, he balanced his wallet on top of the load. Quarters. He'd forgotten about quarters. He glanced down the street toward the liquor store three blocks away. Neon beer signs flashed pink and green, creating an oasis of light on the mostly dark road. The city council had decided one street light every four blocks was more than enough in these hard economic times. Sighing heavily, Stiles pushed his basket back into the jeep, locked up and started walking.

He was on his way back when he saw the flicker of what might have been a candle in an alley across the street. He almost kept going. There was a fire watch. But he could let someone else be the hero, for once. He'd had enough of it. A few steps later he realized that the light was coming through a window and curiosity prodded him to action. He decided to take a quick peek. He crossed the street crouched low, running on the balls of his feet to avoid attracting attention. Slipping into darker shadows, he flattened against the building wall and crept along until he could just see in the window. He saw a shape, a person, dripping fire from long, clawed fingers. In the light of that supernatural flame, Stiles could, also, clearly see the Mayor of Beacon Hills and two members of the city council.

A break in the mystery at last. As Stiles drew in a shocked breath a hand clapped down over his mouth and something very like a steel band wrapped around his chest. He kicked out, struggling with all his might, but it was like fighting a gorilla. He was lifted from his feet and carried backward, deeper into the alley.

"Hush," a voice commanded at his ear. "They'll hear you."

The voice sent a shiver through his gut. He cut his eyes to try and see the speaker. But he didn't need to see him. His body already knew. He'd relaxed completely into the other man's arms.

"Shhhh," Derek barely whispered. His grip eased, but he didn't let go. "Don't move. Don't speak. Okay?"

Stiles nodded his assent to these rules. Derek let him find his feet, but left the silencing hand in place for a moment. When Stiles remained still, Derek slid each finger slowly over Stiles' lips and off his chin. Finally, only one finger remained, gently shushing. Derek stepped back, but before he could move out of range, Stiles brought his heel down hard on an instep. He was pleased to note that, being barefoot, Derek felt the blow. His smug expression vanished quicker than morning coffee at the Sheriff's department.

He mimed his confusion and fury. Stiles mimed back. Pointing first at Derek and then at his own temple. "You know what that is for?" he mouthed.

Derek had the grace, and good sense, to take the reprimand as his due. He mimed an apologetic shrug. And silently said, "Sorry."

"You better be," Stiles told him, also soundlessly. He circled his finger to indicate both of them, and then made a yapping mouth with one hand. "We need to talk."

Derek jerked his head sideways to indicate the bad guys and rolled his eyes a little.

"No," Stiles shook his head firmly and scowled a perfect "bad dog" admonishment.

"Yes," Derek nodded, just as firmly defiant.

"I will punch you in the face," Stiles said, forming each word carefully with his mouth. Derek smirked. And then, pointed to his ear and shook his head. Clearly indicating he couldn't hear Stiles and, equally clearly, understanding perfectly.

Derek turned to leave, but Stiles clutched at his elbow. A three stooges moment followed as they slapped quietly at one another, until Derek held up his hands in surrender. Stiles made one more playfully aggressive lunge at him, then, did the talk gesture again.

"My place. Sundown. Tomorrow. Bring Scott." Derek said.

"What?"

Derek closed his eyes and tilted his head back for a second, giving in to abject exasperation. Then, he slowly acted the instructions out for Stiles. Stiles made him think of three different ways to express the concept of Scott in charadespeak, pretending he didn't understand the first two. Derek showed him a fist and a lot of teeth

"Oh, Scott," Stiles said, nodding. He beamed as he gave the thumbs up sign.

"I hate you," Derek said, shaping the word "hate" carefully, but pressing his palm down over his heart. By mistake, Stiles figured, or because it was heartfelt loathing.

Either way, he parted from Derek with a renewed zing in his blood. They were going to win this one. He was sure of it. The laundry didn't seem like a chore anymore. And it wasn't until he caught sight of his own reflection in the large windows that he realized how horrible he looked. And, also, how prominent his erect state was against the particularly soft fabric of his pajama pants.

END THIS PART


	2. Chapter 2

bBONDING RITES/b

By Rabid1st

Teen Wolf – Derek/Stiles

bRating:/b Mature

bAuthor's Note:/b This fic has been edited to remove explicit content. It is still rated mature for M/M sexual encounters.

bWarnings/b: NSFW

bSummary:/b Set a year or so in the future, Stiles is about to turn eighteen and is training to be an Emissary, He's learned that there are certain rituals he needs to perform in order to be bonded to his pack. Derek agrees to help with his initiation. Panic and hilarity and some sexy times ensue.

bDisclaimer:/b Teen Wolf is a world unto itself. I am only playing with the characters for my own amusement. No copyright infringement is intended.

PART TWO

The next day, Stiles sat down at his customary lunchroom table with a tray overflowing with food. He'd just stuffed a handful of tater tots into his face, when Lydia dropped into the chair across from him. His throat closed, as it usually did around her, leaving him no way to empty his mouth. He reached for napkins.

"Derek's alive?" Lydia said, lifting an inquiring eyebrow. It was barely a question. Her tone said she knew.

And there was his spit take, right on cue. Stiles covered his mouth, swallowing convulsively. Choking, he took a slug of water to clear away the tot debris. How did she know these things? Was it her supernatural gift? The dead spoke to her. Maybe they'd told her about Derek. Stiles glanced around nervously.

"What makes you say that?" he finally managed to ask.

Lydia dropped a pointed gaze to his lunch. Stiles followed her line of sight down. He supposed it was an excessively full plate. But he hadn't had much to eat in the last week.

"And you haven't run to the bathroom all day."

"I'm feeling better," Stiles said. "It has nothing to do with Derek. I had the flu."

"Right," Lydia nodded.

"And we have a lead on the Phoenix."

"But Derek is alive, too."

"Let's say he is. Let's say, hypothetically, I have to deal with him and his anger management issues again. How does that make my life any better?"

"Do you want me to answer that?"

Stiles pressed his lips together and looked away. "Fine. Whatever. Answer this: How would you handle him and his lone wolf ways?"

"You're the emissary. It's your problem."

"But what would you do?"

Lydia considered her salad, impaling an apple slice on her fork, before she answered him. "You know how I handle dangerous men," she said, before taking a careful bite from her apple. Stiles watched her chew and swallow, every movement nuanced. After delicately licking her lips, she added, "The question is-are you willing to do the same?"

"I'm not you," Stiles sighed. He stabbed up food with his fork, knowing his own eating wasn't even slightly poetic. He just got on with it as quickly as possible. "Dealing with wolves feels like juggling knives in the nude," he went on. "One slip and...schnick!" He used his free hand to mimic a guillotine blade coming down across his lap.

"You're a eunuch? Come on, you love every minute," Lydia purred. "Sex and violence. That's a heady combination."

"Are you saying I'm kinky?"

"Isn't that what being an emissary is all about? Loving everyone."

Stiles set his fork down, frowning. "You know about the...rituals?"

"I read," Lydia told him. "And, be real, this path choice isn't a shocker. You've had it bad for Derek since the day you met him. Maybe since your dad took you to that first basketball game."

"I have not!"

Lydia studied her nails. "I saw it. But don't worry; you don't have it nearly as bad as he does. He's your puppy."

"Yeah," Stiles guffawed. "Right—he has it bad?" He chomped down hard on his next forkful of lunch, shaking his head. But Lydia's pitying stare, took a toll. It made him push back from the table and, finally, ask. "Bad, how?"

"He practically salivates when he sees you. It's disturbing."

"That's because he's been thinking about biting me, how tasty I'll be."

"Oh, he wants a taste, alright," Lydia agreed, fork fluffing through the lettuce in her salad. They both ate for a bit. Then, Lydia spoke again, while pointing a grape tomato she'd speared at him. "This would be so much easier if either of you were gay. Then, at least, one of you would have some idea what you are doing."

"I have ideas, plenty of them," Stiles said. When Lydia lifted a brow, he corrected her obvious assumption, "Not about Derek. Because we hate each other. My ideas are generic, all purpose ones. And I could still turn out gay. Why is everyone so sure I'm not gay?"

"Because you're polyamorous," Lydia said.

"Poly-? Wait, I know what that is…" he broke off, flushing because he'd come very close to telling Lydia about his own extensive reading. "Deaton mentioned it."

"Of course you know. It is simple vocabulary. Poly is many and Amor is love. To love many. As the emissary, you have to do what is necessary to keep the Pack healthy. Makes perfect sense to me."

"And you are obviously not shocked or anything," Stiles said, rolling his eyes.

"Stop being so Victorian and just get in there and take one for the team," she suggested, patting his arm. "It will be like housebreaking a puppy."

"Derek is not a puppy. He's a killing machine. A bad tempered one."

"So is my little Prada, but he behaves." She ignored the derisive snort Stiles made at that comparison. "Just tug on Derek's leash a little. Oh, there we go. What you need is a book on dog training? Have you ever watched The Dog Whisperer? It's on YouTube."

"Derek is, also, a human being."

"And a werewolf," Lydia said. "Become a pack whisperer. All of that pack mentality comes into play during sex. You need to set the boundaries. Show him that you are the one in charge. It will comfort him when he's forced to turn to you for direction and advice."

"Behavior training is a comfort?"

"To canines, yes," Lydia assured him. "They need to know that it is okay to rely on you to make decisions. You just need to be firm with them at first. Don't let Derek take the lead or he will run with it."

"Firm," Stiles said, making a fist. "Right. I can do that."

Lydia gave him another pat. "Maybe you should watch a few videos, first."

Scott and Stiles met at Derek's apartment for a quick war council later that evening. They left Derek's place with a plan of attack and more collective information. Stile's needed to keep his Dad out of this one, because the Mayor's involvement could mean professional suicide. Scott would follow up with Lydia to secure her access to the city council via her mother.

"I'll have to tell my Dad something," Stiles was saying as they entered the elevator.

But Scott didn't want to talk strategy any more. He glanced nervously back at Derek's door, and then ducked into the elevator. When the doors dinged closed, Stiles stabbed the lobby button. And Scott grabbed Stiles by the elbow, leaning in to avoid being overheard.

"What was all that about?" he hissed in a hushed tone.

Stiles affected a carefree manner. "What was what about?"

"You and Derek," Scott whispered, even though, with the elevator noise as cover there was little chance Derek would hear them talking. "What's going on?"

Stile's felt his mouth drop open, knew his eyes were wide and tried to make them fill with innocent wonder. "I don't know what-" he began after a swallow. "Did you smell something?"

"No, I can't smell anything but smoke," Scott said. "But there's something? Right? Because you think I can smell it. And because anyone with eyes can see you two were..." His brow furrowed. "Well, I don't know what you were doing. That's why I'm asking."

Just for a second, Stiles toyed with the idea of confessing all. That was what he did; he shared everything with Scott. They were best friends. Scott had always been his partner in crime and world saving. He'd just assumed he would tell Scott the first time he had sex. Scott had told him about Allison. Not details, but enough. He knew when it happened. And eventually, Scott would find out about the emissary rites and wonder. Or maybe he would know, given the air wouldn't always be smoke saturated. Would he be hurt, feel left out? Would he understand how hard it was to tell your best friend you were about to have ritual gay sex with your best enemy?

The isolation would be the worst part of being an emissary Stiles realized suddenly. He might not be able to share everything with Scott. He was already keeping things from his dad. There were bound to be secrets he would be forced to hold for other people. Or for Scott's own good. The weight of his choices might hang over him and, yet, he wouldn't be able to share his fears or doubts with his best friend. This was going to be harder than he'd imagined. He wasn't much of a natural liar. He ran off at the mouth, generally, so he'd learned to stay honest. He stalled for time as they exited the building and headed toward the jeep.

"He pretended to be dead," Stiles began, figuring that was good enough to start with. "He left us down a man, while he went off on his own, investigating. It's that lone wolf thing, again. And I hate him already, so having him back from the dead is a mixed bag of joy and indigestion."

"I guess," Scott said, not completely satisfied with that explanation. "It's just...you seemed different together...like not hating."

"God, Scott. What did you see? What is it you want to know?" Stiles said. "Because I can't explain your squicky feelings if I don't know-" He looked at Scott, meeting those wide, guileless eyes across the jeep hood. Inspiration struck and he grinned wide, as it dawned on him that Scott would never believe the truth. "Unless you mean the blatant sexual tension?

"Sexual?" Scott blinked, unable to process this.

"You got us," Stiles confessed, pulling open the jeep door and climbing in, as Scott scrambled to follow suit. "We can barely keep our hands off each other."

"But...you and-what?"

"Yeah. It's a shocker. But you figured us out. Derek and I are secret lovers. We were passing notes under the table, whenever you looked away."

Scott laughed and relaxed back into his seat. "Fine. Don't tell me. But whatever it is, I don't want it to get in the way of this plan. I need you both."

Stiles started the car. "We will control our hostile impulses," he promised. "Now, let me tell you what I want for my birthday. I assume money is no obstacle?"

"Happy Birthday to me," Stiles said, when Derek opened his sliding steel door. Before Derek could say anything, Stiles recoiled, dropping the backpack he was carrying on Derek's foot. "Oh, My God! You smell like a satyr's armpit. We need to talk about personal hygiene."

"I showered this morning." Derek said, kicking the backpack aside. It skidded a short distance, remarkably heavy for a change of underwear.

"And then, what?" Stiles exclaimed with a grimace. "Played handball in the sewer all day?"

"You might remember the town was on fire? All the men were putting it out. Where were you?"

"With Scott saving the world and your ass. No more Phoenix. So, you are welcome," Stile said, he crossed the threshold, just far enough for Derek to close the door. "Then, at a party. It's my birthday!"

"Must have misplaced my invitation."

"Not your sort of fun," Stiles said, leaning against the door frame. "First, no maiming. Second, karaoke. Good job on the firefighting, but for the record there is no part of you that is going in my mouth. A little Axe body spray is all I'm say. A spritz or two goes a long way."

"Did your canister explode?" Derek asked, rubbing at his nose.

"Too much?"

"You've vaporized the hair in my nasal passages."

"Got to be an improvement, considering your manly stench."

Derek grabbed Stiles by an elbow and dragged him down the few stairs into the living room.

"Ow. Ow. Ow. A simple invitation to sit would..."

Only Derek didn't stop at the sofa, but kept on past the bed, headed toward the bathroom.

"It looks like both of us are hitting the showers."

"What? Now? Isn't this a little rushed? Shouldn't we work up to that...slowly...over a few dates?"

"This isn't a date," Derek growled. "It's a ritual necessity. Let's just get it over with."

"And suddenly the reason for your bachelor state becomes painfully clear. Ow. Sharp corners. Derek, damn it? Let go," Stiles ordered, pain making his command harsh.

And just like magic Derek released him. Stiles rubbed arm and shoulder, working out the kinks from the wrenching. Derek started stripping off his shirt, which prompted Stiles to looked around.

"Oh, this is nice. Very steampunk. Why have I never been in here?"

"Great bladder control? Put your hands up."

"What?"

"Hands! Up!" Derek barked and Stiles found himself reaching for the ceiling, even as he backpedaled into the edge of the toilet.

Derek closed the slight distance between them. His fingers curled under the edge of Stiles' shirts, knuckles brushing sensitive belly. Stiles cringed, grimacing at the tickle. He started to lower his arms, but Derek, with a smooth upward motion, divested him of both the tee and the flannel shirt in one move.

"Holy-" Stiles began. His voice broke as a shiver lanced through him. Derek's fingers had hooked into the waistband of his jeans. Instead of righteous indignation, a shuddery gasp escaped Stiles. All of his practiced authority evaporated. He lifted up on his toes. "Wait, wait, wait!"

To his amazement, the plaintive tone worked as well as the assertive one. Derek froze mid-ravishment to raise an inquiring eyebrow.

"Problem?"

Stiles took a shaky breath, trying to slow his racing heart. He knew Derek was listening to it, because he cocked his head and a confused expression replaced his irritated one.

"You want this, right?" Derek asked. "It's what you came for."

"Not exactly...this." Stiles pushed both hands, palm down. "Not a quick bang in a bathroom." He managed to avoid stuttering, despite having full body jitters. He was sure Derek would hear his teeth clacking together, as he swayed his head from side to side to indicate their surroundings. "I thought my first time would be a little more...introspective. And, also, you know...involve breasts."

"You're a virgin?" Derek exclaimed, releasing him abruptly.

Seriously? How could Derek not know this? And why the derision? The swirl of mixed emotions, which had been threatening to overwhelm Stiles from the moment he'd arrived, solidified into a focused fury. Oh, how he hated that superior attitude, that condescending tone. He'd been putting up with it for years from more experienced teens. The teasing. The pity. The jokes. Letting his ire take over, he pushed hard into Derek's bare chest. It was like shoving on Grant's Tomb. He didn't shift Derek. Instead, he propelled himself sideways, around the toilet and away from the door.

"Why does everyone say it like that?" Stiles raged. "Full of pity? Like it's contagious? So, I waited for someone special. It's not like I'm over the hill. I'm only eighteen. Technically, all this," he waggled his index finger back and forth between them, "was illegal yesterday."

Derek looked a little contrite. "Sorry. I just thought by now..."

"What? Just because I didn't start hooking up in the neonatal ward that makes me a joke? Maybe ADD interferes with intimacy. Maybe my awkward stage lasted a year or two longer than it should have. Maybe I have standards." His gaze swept down Derek and his lips twisted into a sneer. "Had."

Derek grinned, suddenly, one of his rare beaming smiles. "I'm rarely a first choice."

"Well, if this is how you generally go about it-dragging people around, ripping off their clothes-I can see why." A thought occurred to Stiles. "Can't you smell virginity? The virginal state."

"Not in a man," Derek said, back to his 'you are a moron' tone.

"Unbelievable," Stiles snapped, striding past him to the door.

"What is it you want, Stiles?" Derek said, sounding frustrated. His hands had gone to his own zipper. "Do you want to cuddle first?"

The question stopped Stiles at the doorway. He didn't answer it, but his eyes went to the mirror. In it he watched Derek strip down. He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his jeans and stretch to start the shower. Stiles noted Derek went commando. He also noted the bobbing, half-erection with a combination of pride and concern.

"Wow, Derek! That's some heavy duty tackle you're sporting there."

"Feeling inadequate?" Derek asked, maneuvering the words around teeth that always seemed a little too sharp for Stiles' complete comfort.

"You could land a marlin with that."

"Flattering. But the mirror, and abject terror, have distorted your sense of proportion."

Stiles turned to face him. "Still looking mighty intimidating."

"I can put it away."

"No," Stiles said with a resigned sigh. "You're right. This was my idea. Just getting used to the," he framed his view with both hands, "magnitude of it. Wondering how to avoid...repetitive motion injuries." He glanced around the room as he massaged his fingers and palms. "You have any cocoa butter? Maybe some sesame oil or lotion? I brought a few things. I could get something..."

"There's soap in the shower. Get in."

"What kind of soap? I'm allergic to shea butter and..."

"Goat's milk with herbs. Very gentle. And slippery. Get in."

"How are we going to go about this? You first? Or me?"

"However you like. I'm easy."

"Something that is alarmingly self-evident at this point."

"Stiles?" Derek barked. "Stop stalling. Or I'm going to use this," he pointed to his swelling member, "On you. Where you stand." He used a snapping wrist motion to emphatically jab his finger at the shower. "Get—IN!"

"Alright! My God, you are cranky for someone who is about to get the best hand job of his life."

"All you've given me so far is a headache."

Waves of aggressive energy seemed to pulse off of Derek. He had an arm braced against the shower stall door. He really wasn't enjoying himself, Stiles realized. He stepped closer to place a soothing hand on Derek's bare shoulder.

"Okay," Stiles said, gently. "This is supposed to be about trust. So, just, relax. I think we're both a little nervous..."

"I'm not nervous, I'm furious."

"Just another day in the life of Derek Hale, then," Stiles quipped and Derek smiled, ever so slightly, obviously fighting the urge. Dropping his chin Stiles managed to make eye contact under the glowering brow. "Come on, you know I'm going to do it. And these hand," he rotated one of them for inspection, "they are amazing. I've had years of practice."

Derek huffed his disbelief. He shrugged, throwing off Stiles' touch before stepping under the shower spray. Rivulets of water traced lightning bolt patterns all over his torso. Stiles followed him into the close space and shut the sliding door. He picked up the soap, giving it a tentative sniff.

"You doubt me, Boogie Nights?" he said, pointing the bar at Derek. "Sure, maybe you are the experienced one when it comes to sex with actual partners. But I'm the Mozart of hand jobs. I started young and stayed with it." He lathered his palms. "While all the other boys were out scoring girls, I was home alone, putting in the hours."

This time, Derek laughed outright, as he yanked Stiles to him, eliminating their individual, personal space. "Sold. Show me what you've got."

To his own amazement, Stiles managed to focus on task. Only the musky scent of the soap distracted him for a few moments. It was a handmade bar, redolent with sandalwood and amber and other pungent natural odors. Derek smells he recognized, they went with leather and wet fur. The soapy scent mingled with smoke and sweat when Stiles got a little closer to Derek. Soap. Derek. Water. Derek. Tile slick under his feet and, occasionally, brushing coolly against his back or shoulder. Hot water pounding on him. Derek. The line of hair tracing downward. Satin and iron. The steam curling in the small space. And Derek was right about how slippery the soap made them. Skin slid across skin, fingers fumbled for purchase. Stiles ran out of wiggle room. Shoulders and bottom pressed against the slick tile wall, he tried to catch a breath and a break. But Derek had him cornered. They kissed. Derek slipped one hand around Stiles' waist, the other hand skidding down and between.

Stiles made a noise, a sort of squeak. Only his doctor had ever cupped him there before, and it felt a lot different than doing it himself. A lot better. Now he just had to return the favor. Though it was a little bit distracting, with Derek's mouth doing what it was doing now to his nipples. And Derek's hands…everywhere. Stiles had lost the lead. And Derek had scampered into the neighbor's yard to dig up begonias. Or something like that. Stiles couldn't remember one thing the Dog Whisper had told him, but he knew he had to take some initiative. Only he couldn't do anything, because Derek kept on stroking him. That fist going up and down his exquisitely hard length, palm twisting at the top to capture lubricating fluids. Fingers pumped the slickness down the shaft slowly, firmly. Gah. Tongue again. Why so much kissing? The man was seriously messing with him. A teasing flutter here. A deft tug there. Those lips. That tongue. Prickly beard. Silky hair. Smoke. Sin. And rock hard biceps.

Stiles let his head lull back. His talented hands betrayed him, simply grasping on to Derek's neck. He ground into that mouth, that grip. Derek waited until Stiles went limp all over, then he turned him to the wall. Stiles wasn't sure he could put up much resistance at this point. He braced both palms against the wall and tried to gather his strength, hoping to push back any assault. But, Derek only nuzzled along his hairline, a tender tickling with nose and lips. Making it that much more shocking when he bit down hard enough to cause pain.

"Whoa-hey-no biting!"

The panting protest made no impact on Derek. He kept on sucking. The world reeled. Stiles didn't dare twist away from the bruising, despite sensing blunt teeth. He couldn't risk blood shed. His panic combined with weak knees to mimic submission. The sense of vulnerability was excruciating and tantalizing and seemed to go on and on. It ended with a slurp of Derek's tongue and more hot breath close to an ear.

"I barely bruised you, Amadeus," Derek murmured.

"I have very delicate skin," Stiles said, enunciating each word with care. He wanted to slam an elbow into Derek's ribs, but he still couldn't seem to move.

"Mmmm," Derek hummed, tilting Stiles chin back so he could kiss him over the shoulder.

Stiles forgot about his plan to elbow Derek. He took a shuddering breath and turned into the kiss. Two could play this game. Derek thought his mouth was kissable. Well. Okay, then. This time his tongue took the initiative. As he walked his fingers down Derek's stomach, Stiles could feel the muscles tense. Lower down, a quite prominent muscle twitched. That's it puppy, he thought, sit up and beg. Derek Hale wanted him. There was no doubt about it. Time to take charge. Despite the lethargy of having come so hard his teeth ached, Stiles felt a little thrill of excitement. This was going to be fun.

He put his hands to work. Derek held it together for about two minutes. He seemed unmoved by the kissing and the first few strokes. Stiles eased back a little so they could see one another clearly. Derek maintained eye contact, settling into a predatory stare. Stiles upped the ante and applied a number of variations on grip and pressure. Derek's gaze dropped to Stiles's mouth. Stiles flashed him some teeth. Derek snarled back, snapping playfully. His hips bucked, just a little, but he kept his cool right up until Stiles tried a move he'd read about on a stripper's blog once. She'd called it the jellyroll. And it involved using both hands and your lips, so he had to go down to his knees. But Derek's reaction made the tile burn well worth it.

"Son of a...Ash, the...what?"

Stiles couldn't answer. But he felt sure that question was rhetorical. No need to respond. He found the fallen soap. Slicked up again, he began tracing a finger around Derek's bellybutton. He considered his next move carefully. Derek had placed his hands on Stiles at the shoulders, perilously close to the throat. Stiles thought of those kisses again. That neck bite. Derek deserved a little something back. He fumbled his way to the right spot and pressed up, his finger easily penetrating into a fascinating tightness. The invasion didn't provoke the reaction Stiles was expecting. Apparently, Derek was used to the sensation. Probably from the stick permanently up his ass, Stiles thought. He remained rigid at the wrist as Derek ground down, wanting more. Stiles obliged, using two fingers. He forgot about the gross element, enjoying what it did for Derek. But the loss of one hand limited his own maneuvering. And he was getting hard again, himself. Right. Something a little more esoteric for the man who's had everyone. Time to put Derek's other sexual organ to work.

"Tell me what you want to do to me, right now," he said, "Assuming it is all legal and I'd live through it."

"Ride you. Hold you down. Turn you, so you'd never get away from me," Derek snarled.

"I'd let you do that."

"I can't...changing. Can't hold it—you need to—back—get away. Get out. Agk—" He growled, a deep, vibrating in his chest, as his eyes came open. "—Baby, I don't want to hurt you, but I'm going to come and I can't...oh, my...Grrrah!"

It went against everything in his nature, every impulse, to move toward Derek. To stay inside of him as his eyes went red. But Stiles managed to half-stand and push even closer. He kept on pumping. Twisting his fingers in that squeezing heat, curling them forward to hit the perfect angle. He kept on stroking up and down, leaning in to use his ribs and stomach for more friction. Finally, in a burst of inspiration, he bit down on Derek's neck. Finding the same point where he'd just been bruised himself, he used his teeth to draw blood. He hoped that wasn't enough to infect him. The unexpected assault pulled Derek taut as a bow string. His back arched, muscles standing in relief under his skin. His claws came out and he roared, teeth snapping together inches away from Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles collapsed out of the danger zone. There was a blur of strobe lights in his head. He ended up on his knees again, partially draped over Derek's right leg. Neither of them moved for a few stuttering heartbeats. A tangle of flesh, they just let the cooling water wash over them, both gasping for air.

Predictably, Stiles broke the silence. "Did you just call me baby?"

"No."

"I distinctly heard you channeling Justin Bieber," Stiles cooed, as he gave his fingers a rinse. "Baby, Baby, Baby...oh, what was it, exactly? 'I don't want to hurt you—baby.' That was so sweet."

Derek pushed at him. Weak as a kitten, Stiles noticed. "You are dead to me. And if you tell anyone about this..."

"Yeah. Yeah. You'll rip out my throat," Stiles said, hauling himself to his feet by using Derek and the soap holder for leverage, "with your teeth. Don't even bother with your threats. I'm not going to tell anyone about this, because it would be a violation of my oath as an emissary. So, your secrets are safe with me." He stood, swaying slightly, as he added, "baby."

"Next time, I'm not going to give you any warnings."

"Next time, if there is a next time, I'm going to make you roll over and play dead."

"As soon as your Druid mojo wears off, you are going to pay for every dog training reference you make."

"You think I'm messing around here? This bonding ritual is going to take. So, my mojo is forever. I haven't even started working you over," Stiles said, sliding the stall door aside, leaving Derek to shut off the faucets.

"I've created a monster."

"Not your first time for that either." Stiles grabbed a towel from the pile on the counter top by the sink. He wrapped it around his waist and took another to dry his hair.

"Where did you learn to—you know?" Derek said, with conversational nonchalance.

"The Jellyroll?" Stiles enjoyed showing off and knew his breadth of sexual study would impress. "It's from Bubbles Fly Life blog. She's a sex worker and stripper. When I got bi-curious; I got bi-educated. I've read my way through every downloadable sex manual and online forum I could find. iThe Joy of Sex. The Joy of Gay Sex. Light His Fire. Light Her Fire. The Lesbian Kama Sutra./i I know the rabbit pose and all sixteen variations of the tiger grip."

"The rabbit—what?"

"Like Sting, I'm Tantric," Stiles said to clarify. Noting Derek's blank look, he scowled his dismay. "Really? This is what comes from living the way you do, sleeping in abandoned buildings, running around the wood half naked. No iPhone. No wi-fi. You have no grasp of cultural references. iOne Week?/i Barenaked Ladies?"

Derek shook his head, his expression saying he didn't care to know. "Toss me a towel, Sting."

Stiles complied and Derek started rubbing himself dry. As Derek worked the moisture out of his hair, Stiles couldn't help gawking a little at the rest of him, still glistening with water droplets. The man had no shame. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of, given that body. A body he, Stiles, was sure he wouldn't be touching again any time soon.

"Okay," Stiles drawled, tearing his gaze away. "So I know what I'm getting you for your birthday—a Pandora subscription." He peered out the door, taking in the rest of the sparse loft. "And something like an audio system. Maybe a laptop."

"You aren't moving in," Derek told him.

"Are you getting unruly already?" Stiles said, exiting the room on his way to the kitchen for a drink. He needed something to wash the lingering soap taste away. He adopted a casual air as he sauntered by the bed. "Because I was leaving, but I can apply another tongue lashing, right this minute, Mister."

The bedsprings creaked behind him. Stiles stopped walking. He turned to see Derek sprawled across the duvet. Stiles mentally reprimanded himself for knowing the word duvet. He couldn't help noticing Derek wasn't wearing his towel. It was artfully draped across his stomach, like maybe Michaelangelo would be dropping by later to sculpt him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Uh...home? After I get a drink."

"Why don't you tell me what's in the backpack? It smells interesting."

"Seriously?" Stiles said, letting it sink in that Derek was still ignoring every opportunity to cover up with his towel. He looked past him, out the window. In his wildest, or most panicked, imaginings he'd never thought this would be more than a quick exchange of hand jobs. "We're not done here?"

"You want to be done?" Derek sounded surprised, maybe even a little hurt.

"Do you see me walking away?" Stiles half-turned, as if to leave.

"Do you see me laying here belly up and naked?"

Stiles pivoted slowly back to the view of exposed Derek. He let his gaze drift along the bed, taking it all in. He considered telling Derek he wasn't going gay for him. Seemed a little late for that. He considered remaining completely unmoved, practically stoic. Then, he considered the picture perfect display of canine submission before him. He wasn't buying it.

"What an enormous boner you have, Grandma."

Derek flashed his teeth. "The better to...oh, that's right. I already told you."

THE END


End file.
